


Mr. Misty-Eyed

by TheWalkingDebt



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Based on a Twenty One Pilots Song, Cute, Cute Dean, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Is 21P rap?, Singing, Swearing, doing dishes, don't worry just fluff, oh no gender roles, rapping(?), whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-26 16:54:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9912170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWalkingDebt/pseuds/TheWalkingDebt
Summary: "Can you save my heavydirtysoul?"Cute fluff, Dean finds Reader singing whilst washing dishes in her home.





	

Singing Twenty One Pilots in the kitchen and ‘grossing’ Dean out.

*

> “ _ There’s an infestation in my mind’s imagination, I hope they choke on smoke cuz I’m smoking them out the basement. This is not rap, this is not hip hop, just another attempt to make the voices stop! Rapping to prove nothin’ just writin’ to say somethin’, cuz I wasn’t the only one who wasn’t rushin’ to say nothin’, this doesn’t mean I lost my dream, it’s just right now I got a really crazy mind to clean _ !”

You grin at making all the words, for once, a hard feat to accomplish whilst doing dishes and thinking of dinner.

“What the hell are you singing?” Dean’s voice comes from behind. You glance over your shoulder, music still playing off the speaker attached to your mp3. He’s leaning in your doorway, nose scrunched, eyebrows as offended as they can be. “If you can call that singing?” 

“ _ Can you save, can you save my, can you save my heavydirtysoul? _ ” you sing loudly, instead of answering. He scowls and comes over with dark intent in his eyes. “Oh no you don’t…!” you slap at his hand, pouting. “My kitchen, my music, Winchester.” You then nudge him away with your body, saving your music from his judging hands, glaring slightly. “Let me enjoy my thing.”

“But it’s crap!” he whines, looking as much like a five year old as a thirty-something year old man possibly can. It’s precious, but your music is very important to you, and boys come second to it. No matter how cute.

“Go sit in a chair and think about what you’ve said, you judgy person, you,” you mock, cranking the volume with one soapy hand and continuing to sing, loudly. “… _ If I didn’t know better I’d guess you’re all already dead, mindless zombies walking around with a limp and a hunch, saying stuff like ‘you only live once’! You’ve got one time to figure it out! One time to twist and one time to shout, one time to think and I say we start now, sing it with me if you know what I’m talking about! _

“ _ Gangsters don’t cry, therefore-therefore I’m, Mister Misty Eyed, therefore I’m… Can you save, can you save my, can you save my heavydirtysoul? Can you save, can you save my, can you save my heavydirtysoul? For me, for me. Can you save my heavydirtysoul? For me, for me. Can you save my heavydirtysoul? _ ”

He sulks and scowls, but he stays in the kitchen, for whatever reason, as you sing. He watches the way you react to the song, grinning and head bopping, frowning as you miss the fast-paced lyrics, smiling beautifully when you get a long line of them right. You crow out the chorus with pleasure, feet tapping as you sway and bounce to the music, the beat of your hair as it jounces in a tight ponytail. You always did like getting all distractions out of the way while you worked...

He smiles, just a little, and thinks on the few lyrics he understands. He wonders if you feel this way, or if it reminds you of someone. Maybe you just like the song, but it seems a little too meaningful to be simply something you enjoy listening to for fun.

Or maybe it just seems that way. Maybe he’s reading too much into it.

“You really like that stuff?” he asks as the song ends. You turn to look at him, surprised he’s still there.

“Yeah,” you push a stubborn strand of hair from your face with a soapy finger. He stands from the chair, chuckling as the bubbles trail your cheek. He wipes it away with his thumb, palm cupping your cheek. You stare up at him, feeling blood rush to your face as he peers down on you, partially curious, mostly amused.

“It’s horrible,” he finally says, before kissing your forehead. “And I’d better never hear it in my Baby.” If it weren’t for his words, you’d have long shot past cloud nine. As is…

You close your eyes at the kiss, batting them open dazedly, but collecting yourself sharply, “Just for that, I’m going to sneak my music onto all of your tapes, Winchester.”

“Don’t you even dare,” he points a stern finger in your face, but his lips quirk playfully, just slightly. “You’re just lucky you’re cute, cherry pie.”

Struggling not to let the surprised squeak out, you retort, “One compliment won’t save you come next prank war, Dean-o.”

“Then I guess I’ll hafta rely on my charm,” he murmurs, leaning down and kissing your lips softly. Your eyes don’t shut this time, stunned from head to toe. When he pulls away, he eyes you uncertainly, hands shifting slightly from where they locked on your waist and cheek. “Um…”

“I have soap on my hands,” you reply blankly, holding them up. “I’ll wipe it off, then we can make out?” He grins, relieved, but ignores your soapy hands. He’d rather just make out now and worry about the less interesting part of that sentence later.

Moments later, you barely remember you’ve got big bay windows in your kitchen, letting your snoopy neighbors poke their noses into your business all day long, let alone that your hands are a bit soapy.


End file.
